


Mountains and a Mole's Hill

by orphan_account



Category: South Park
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Sex, Cigarettes, Dirty Talk, M/M, Mountains, Sex Education, Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-28 21:51:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/679256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Did you bring the buttfor?" </p><p>"What's a buttfor?" </p><p>"For pooping silly...among other things." </p><p>Christophe teaches Kyle about anal sex. SP Kink meme prompt. </p><p>   <i>“What can I say? We French, we surrender to desire. And everything else, really. But mostly desire.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Mountains and a Mole's Hill

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt from SP Kink Meme. French from Google >XP

Kyle could sniff out the smokers in his grade, and that was the only scent to follow if he was to unearth the Mole. Christophe didn't go to their school though; he was taught at home by his mother, and he never quite acclimated to the social expectations of most kids his age. Rumors were the only fuel to feed Kyle's curiosity. When he failed on multiple occasions to glean any useful information from the goth kids, too distracted by their sulky reveries about the nineties, he had one last source to tap. The truth was that Kenny always smelled like cigarettes and sour milk, and was never short on information about the nefarious underbelly of South Park. The last he'd heard, Christophe was prone to retreat to the woods behind the gas station and kept up a habit of laying his infamous booby-traps and setting off explosions on the weekends.

“Well, how do you know he's not grounded for that?” 

“Fuck if I know! He's still digging holes and causing fires, ain't he?” Kenny blew smoke in his face. Kyle sighed, but basked in the faint cloud of nicotine. 

“What do you want with the Mole anyway? He's a high strung motherfucker, from what I hear.” 

“I...” Kyle didn't want to admit the truth to Kenny. “Stan said he's pretty fucked up, right? Maybe he needs someone to talk to, after all these years.” 

“Yeah, like he really needs someone to talk to.” Kenny pitched his cigarette at Kyle's snow boots and stalked off. Kyle stomped out the glowing butt and chalked Kenny's sour attitude up to it being his time of the month-- at least he was just grouchy and not suspicious. He was glad to be rid of Kenny and his questions though, because admitting that he wanted to probe the young revolutionary's mind on a very specific topic was too embarrassing to bring up to one of his oldest friends. 

The next afternoon, after school let out, Kyle defected from the usual afternoon game of basketball to wander off into the very woods that Kenny spoke of the day before. The hum of automobiles faded away behind him as he stumbled deeper into the thicket, beyond the smell of gasoline and grease. He plotted a vague course along the winding slope of the uneven stretch of craggy hills, sweating in spite of the cold, but it wasn't long before the eerie calm was interrupted by the sudden bark of a thickly-accented voice. 

“What do you want, menace!”

Kyle yelped and spun around, only to see a dark silhouette thrusting the spade of a long-handled shovel at his throat. The telling red ember of a cigarette burned in the shadow's mouth. 

“Répondez!” The shovel jerked closer to his neck. 

“Mole! Christophe! I come in peace!” He thrust his palms out in front of him, showing that he carried no weapons, but then ungracefully stumbled into a foxhole. Nudging his hat out of his eyes, he caught a look of derision on the older boy's face as Christophe ground his cigarette out with the heel of his boot and leaned down to extend a calloused hand to Kyle. 

“This is a surprise.” Christophe remarked dryly, dropping the spade of the shovel into the dirt as Kyle brushed the leaves off of his ass. He glanced at his rubber wristwatch and frowned. “It is a bit early to expect any company. Especially when they arrive uninvited, ten feet away from ze bear trap.” 

“Bear trap?” Kyle craned his head to inspect the fallen debris of the forest, but he could see nothing of the sort. “Why do you need to catch bears?” 

“I am not trying to catch ze bears,” he deadpanned. “I am trying to catch ze trespassers.” 

“Aren't you the one trespassing?” Kyle noted, with only the slightest edge of contempt. But he instantly regretted his snark when Christophe tossed a raggedy log only a few feet away from where they stood, and the ground fell away into a rocky crevasse. A metallic snap echoed out from the sharp divot in the earth, Kyle instantly wished he had never come out here to try and shoot the shit with a notorious psychopath. 

“Alright, you've got boundaries. I get it.” Kyle wiped the sweat from his brow and muttered, “Shit.”

“Is this a social call, Broflovski?” Christophe glanced at his watch a second time, and then inspected Kyle's stature once more, leaning on the handle of the shovel. “Honestly, I thought you were smart enough to try and catch me at home. Away from ze...spectacle.” He gestured to the dark pit for emphasis. 

Kyle's tongue turned to lead in his mouth. His nerves were already shot from the sudden shock of almost becoming bear bait. Following up on his initial reasoning for being out here, alone in the wilderness, seemed impossible. 

“Unless you meant to catch me away from prying eyes.” Christophe's lips pinched themselves together in a smirk, and he took a more business-like air about him, letting his gaze wander to the maze of weathered trees. He pried a cigarette from the tight fold of black bandanna around his head and pursed his lips around it. It appeared to be bent and slightly dampened from his own perspiration, but nonetheless, a lighter appeared out of his utility belt and a white cloud spiraled out of his mouth. 

“Well, you seem like you have some problems with your mother...” Kyle stuttered out, his eyes following the smoke as it was swept away into the trees. “And I did want to talk to you alone.” 

“Change your mind, then?” Christophe scoffed, flicking the ask of his cigarette into the rotting trunk of a fallen tree. “You think that you are a fucking mind-reader? We all have issues with our mothers, because we were their first problem to begin with.”

Kyle's antagonistic nature got the better of him and he responded, “Well, not really. Their first problem was doing a guy, right?” 

“Hm.” Ignoring him, Christophe straightened his utility belt and then heaved the shovel up and onto his shoulder. Kyle caught the glint of a hunting knife against his thigh. At least it was still in its holster, he thought to himself, but the Mole managed to look pretty damn menacing with the shovel balanced on his frame like a facet of armor, puffing away on a cigarette in the semi-darkness of the trees' shadows. He was in his expected black garb, although it looked like the garments had seen better days; they were ripped in places, spotted with dirt and what Kyle could only identify as scorch marks. It pained him to admit that the Frenchman's rugged appearance suited him in a way that made Kyle's throat tighten. He stared down at the spindling laces of his combat boots, flecked with spots of mud, the odd dried out leaf crumbles scattered on the tucked in canvas of his well-worn cargo pants. 

“Um. Hey, Mole. Do you have-- I mean--” He was about to make a tremendous fool of himself. 

“Oui, Kyle.” Christophe spat into the rotting log. His surge of disgust at the act made Kyle wince, but it got his jaw working again, and with the proper resolve and a defiant smirk, the right words finally tumbled out of his mouth. 

“What's a buttfor?” 

Without missing a beat, Christophe responded, “For pooping, silly.” He smiled, his eyes crinkling in subtle mirth. “But not always.” He bent down a few steps away from Kyle, his knees only just grazing the earth, and put out his cigarette on the grey remains of the stump. He looked up at Kyle, his eyes catching the warm ambient light of the woodland that surrounded them, causing the blood to rush to Kyle's face. He quickly looked away. When Christophe returned to his full height, he lumbered forward, raising him arm to encircle Kyle's shoulders. In the pocket of silence, Kyle tried his best to read the time on the face of Christophe's watch and failed miserably. 

“Ah. Enculé de merde.” He was so close that Kyle could the tobacco on his breath. He leaned back, brushing against the body of a young tree, only to avoid the temptation of leaning into the trajectory of Christophe's chapped mouth. He grasped onto a spindly branch to brace himself, and opened his mouth: 

“Voulez vous--”

Christophe recoiled, throwing his hands in the air. “Oh, shut ze fuck up. I don't want to even hear you finish that sentence.” The log beside them cracked as Christophe delivered a swift kick to it's skeletal remains.

“Do you know how many times that FUCK-ing song has been used to pick up my whore mother? It is like I'm living in that bitch Nicole Kidman's God-forsaken burlesque club of American trash!” 

“Okay! Okay! No French!”

Christophe brushed of his anger as if it were a piece of lint, and shrugged. “Well, that is not off the table, entirely. Come.” He and Kyle circumnavigated around the trap and, once on the other side, Christophe dropped the shovel in the cradle of an old tree's roots. On the ground, Kyle could see the dislodged web of nylon rope. He reached for it, but Christophe snatched it away. As he reeled it in around his fist, the hidden tarp was restrung around the five foot gap in the ground. “Get some leaves,” Christophe ordered, and Kyle obeyed, albeit cautiously. He wasn't sure how many more traps were set in the vicinity.

“Can you...tell me-- if you know--” Kyle panted, tossing handfuls of leaves over the rewired trap as Christophe retied complicated knots, “I mean I think you know, otherwise I wouldn't ask, but I keep thinking about it and I really wanna know, so there's nothing to stop me from asking you.” The last toss of leaves fanned out in the breeze so that none of them really landed on their target and mostly ended up on Kyle's coat instead, causing him to splutter indignantly.

“Except you are not asking me a question.” Christophe finished with the rope and faced Kyle once more, his impatience evident in his stature, but belayed by the mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Shouldn't you have reset the metal trap?” Kyle suggested blandly, flinging a leaf away.

“Quoi? Non, there are beveled spikes down there as well. Your real question?”

“Oh, God. Do I have to say it in English?” Kyle whined, his fingers curling under the brim of his hat, preemptively tucking away any of his red hair.

He gave a firm nod. “Oui.” 

“What else can you do...with your butt?” 

Christophe held on to his poker face for what seemed like a lifetime to Kyle, who started to nervously dig the toes of his shoes into the ground, but refused to break his earnest gaze with the young Frenchman. Then, the incriminating stare melted into a piteous grin, and Christophe shouldered his shovel once more. A tingle of fear crept along Kyle's skin, and he eyed the shovel dubiously. 

“Allons-y.”

Kyle blinked. “What?” 

Christophe sighed dramatically and pointed further along the steep mountainside. “This way, Kyle. I show you.” 

“Show me?” he squawked, the rush of distrust flooding his senses like the taste of sour fruit. “What-- I mean, where?” he amended rapidly, feeling dumber by the second. There was no way he was ready to make a mountain out of a mole hill, so to speak...

Christophe peeked at his watch again and shrugged. “We talk, or we don't talk, you choose.” 

Christophe leaped over a fallen tree and slipped into a dense thrush of evergreens. Kyle hesitated, watching the pine needles settle. It was his last chance to turn back, but he was overwrought with curiosity that churned in his belly just as intensely as his apprehension. There were only so many ways that he had imagined this scene playing out in his head, but by any indication, Christophe was ready to play his part in Kyle's bizarre and whimsical investigation. With new-found determination, he clambered over the tree and chased Christophe into the abundant green. 

When he caught up with Christoph's brisk pace through the woods, he blurted out between gasps of air. “We can talk, but I don't know if I wanna delve into all the details. I'm not really old enough to--”

“Take a drink?” 

“What? Why?” Stumbling only a little at the flask thrust in his face, Kyle was more surprised that his hands wrapped around it so eagerly and unscrewed the top without waiting for an answer. 

“Because it will ease that American shame off your tongue.” Frowning at that, Kyle took a swig, and Christophe snickered as Kyle grimaced, his cheeks full of vodka. “And we talk a little easier. Tu comprends?”

“Sure.” Kyle coughed, wiping the spit off on his sleeve and passing the flask back to Christophe, who shook his head and tipped the flask into his mouth. He swallowed and licked his lips, and Kyle paid for his distraction by dragging his foot into a particularly deep puddle of sludge and snow.

“I must admit, I'm surprised you came to me about these matters. It is very...European of you.”

“I...like to do research. I mean, I like to know the context from which people refer to when they say they've...ah...”

“Fucked in the ass?” Christophe paused at a wall of eroded rock and passed the flask back to Kyle. He heaved himself up and over a slab of sediment jutting out of the ground, and Kyle, who hadn't quite recovered from the other boy's brusque statement, sucked down another mouthful of vodka in his momentary lapse of diction. Christophe dusted off his hands and bent down, offering his open palm to Kyle.

“Sh-yeah.” Kyle finally blurted out, sticking the open flask in Christophe's outstretched hand. The boy gave him a questioning look, and then tucked it back into his waistband while Kyle tried to scale the rock by himself in a fit of sovereign bravado. After a few moments of embarrassed scrambling, Christophe gripped his wrists and pulled him up with far more ease than Kyle expected. Christophe's touch didn't linger though, and he sauntered off into the overgrowth before Kyle had time to be act affronted at the complete disregard of his aspired manliness. He cursed to himself, and ached for another turn with the flask, but he followed speedily, fearing to be left behind. Catching his gaze as Kyle eventually matched his stride, Christophe began:

“You know, ze thing about us heathens--” Kyle's hands flew up in protest, but were promptly ignored. “--is that we never learn our sin from a textbook, like the rest of these pig-dogs. They think we do, but our bodies have more impulses than our brains can put together one kind of socially-acceptable pleasure. It is more than rutting around in the dark like animals. Have a drink.”

Kyle was a little dismayed when Christophe passed him a small plastic water bottle. At least it gave him the opportunity to wash the aftertaste of the liquor from his teeth. Christophe rambled on:

“We live under the unmerciful gaze of a hateful God who damns us to a mortal world where there is no rest to ze undying agony off needing physical release, except in our most isolated fantasies. Do you know what I am saying, Kyle?”

Kyle didn't want to risk revealing too much to his guide through the forest, but he could stand one truthful admission about the familiar but unwarranted shame rooted in his soul, and the stimulating thrill of his body's even stranger predilections.

“Yeah. I think I do.”

“So what do you know about ze ass?”

Kyle stopped short at the base of another steep incline and leaned onto the sticky trunk of well-weathered pine, exasperated. “Aren't I supposed to be asking the questions here?”

“Yes, but like you say. Ze context is très important.” Christophe made a serious face, unknowingly taunting Kyle by gripping his shovel in an expertly phallic manner. “So? How do you spank ze monkey?”

“I dunno. The normal way? In the bathroom.” Kyle replied, blushing and becoming increasingly more agitated with the sudden invasion of privacy. He had the sudden impression that he was still talking to Kenny McCormick instead of a carefully vetted stranger. If he'd known the conversation was going to take a turn for the nasty so quickly, he would have just let Kenny explain his philosophies on butts in the relative safety of his gutted pick-up truck with a swiped fag rag from the gas station, and resigned himself to the world of internet porn until he was thirty.

“That is not normal. That is a tragedy. What do you do?" Chistophe was going to get splinters if he kept winding his hands on the handle of his shovel like that.

“I...I get in the shower and I rub one out! What else is there to say?” Kyle folded his arms, and found that they were quite sticky with tree sap. Failing only a little in his distress, Christophe at least had the decency only purse his lips in a constrained smile instead of letting out a spiteful guffaw at how ridiculously Kyle was representing himself as one of the brightest and most intelligent people in South Park.

“There is always more.” Christophe responded with genuine severity. “What do you do with your hands?"

“I...” Kyle hesitated, searching for the right verb. “...yank on it. But it's already pretty sore...The water always feels good." He added as an afterthought.

Christophe looked considerate, and replied, “Oui, lubrication is key. Ze females, they have the natural fluids we lack. Ze pussy is wet, non?”

“What the fuck? Nevermind. This was a bad idea.” Kyle felt his stomach turn and he started to plot a path back down the mountainside in his head, only to realize that he hadn't been paying close enough attention to get back by himself, thanks to the distracting burn of alcohol in his head.

"Do you want to learn? I am giving you a lesson, bitch.” Christophe rolled his eyes and gazed up at some unseen summit ahead, pausing to take a gulp of water. They could have been a mile up the mountain at this point. Stomping ahead of Christophe, Kyle realized it would be too much of an effort to try and retrace his steps alone, and he would just have to suffer through the inappropriate interrogation with as much of his dignity in tact as possible.

“What else? Where do you touch yourself, Kyle? On the stomach? On the balls? On your butt?” Christophe prodded him on the behind with the shovel handle as he passed him and reclaimed his position as navigator. 

Dignity be damned, Kyle thought, rubbing his ass. "I squeeze a little."

“Your ass cheeks?”

“Ugh. Yes. And sometimes, I go between...”

“And you use your finger in ze butt?”

“I don't put it in! It just feels good to massage it, I guess. It grosses me out, and I cum. End of story.”

They trudged through a thicket of dried bushes. Christophe swung the shovel in front of them, batting away the entangled branches so that there was just enough room to squeeze through.

“Well you will be pleased to know that ze asshole is supposed to feel like that. For boys and girls, _mon petit agneau_.”

“What did you just call me?” Kyle batted the dried vines away from his face. “Don't call me that.”

“I am calling you Lamb. Am I not ze Lion though? Isn't this your sexual education? Quite frankly, I'm surprised you didn't ask McCormick, even in spite of his deep appreciation for bosoms. Do you know what ze prostrate is?"

“God damn, do you have to say that?”

“Well I can't call it _agneau_ , so...”

“Of course I've looked it up! But it doesn't make sense. Books don't make sense when they're talking about sex like that.”

This was the truth, for the most part. There were quips made on a daily basis about homosexual acts made by the the boys that he knew, whether it was Cartman inadvertently making a hypocritical faggot of himself, or Butter's unabashedly referencing his experiences with other people's balls in his mouth. Sex was a topic that had been delegated to those braver than Kyle, like Jimmy who proudly worked his wood into a new brand of standup, or Token who relished relating the grotty details of the pornos he'd grown a nefarious habit for, and of course, the adventurous mouth and mind of the whore McCormick. But the practice of sex and asses was something that Kyle was so secretly adhered to, that the typical jargon of homosexuality was beyond his grasp. He only knew that it was a practice he dreamed about in his sleep, and the thoughts taunted him like the sweets he wasn't allowed to consume.

“I didn't want to ask Kenny. He would just be confusing and all...gross.”

Kyle would have rather been strung up like holiday lights than have asked Kenny about what it felt like to fellate another man, whether it was Howard Stern or Bill Clinton. And it happened that Kenny was difficult to address in the wake of his political seizure of South Park in it's criminal underbelly. He had no intention of asking what Mysterion and Professor Chaos got up to on Saturday nights in the safety of the storage unit by the used car lots. It would breech the virginal code of conduct he wanted to cling to, and ultimately change his opinion of his friends, if what Cartman joked was going on between the costumed duo was true. Kyle only wanted to change his opinion of himself after all, if only to prove that he was smart enough to figure things out by himself.

“But you asked him about me,” Christophe said, inclining his head in mock modesty.

“You don't know that,” Kyle snapped back.

Christophe wore a telling smile that suggested otherwise, and flicked his cigarette into the wind.

He brought them through the craggy woodland mountainside in stunted silence until they arrived at a shelf of broken up rock. They took a few spartan leaps into the shallow quarry, and arrived at a scorched blemish in the rocks that smelled distinctively like a pot left on burning stove. Kyle peered into the darkness sheepishly.

"I...heard that you started some fires out here.”

“You cannot blast through rock with only a shovel. Where do you think McCormick gets his fireworks anyway?”

Christophe crushed another cigarette into the rock. He coughed, “We cannot smoke here, see. This is where I keep ze explosives.”

“Uh, maybe we should go home then.” Christophe must have known that he was the only person carrying a lighter. Kyle would sooner pick up a cigarette to eat it than risk his integrity by picking up another unfathomable habit to be rudely discovered by his mother or father or god forbid, Ike.

“Home. Where is home but another place to hide. No smoking.”

“Alright. Fine,” Kyle spat, rolling his eyes. The back of Christophe's palm smacked him in the chest, startling the sarcasm away. The two teetered at the mouth of the cave, staring each other down with an unexpected ferocity.

“So I show you, oui?” Cristophe's gruff voice echoed into the darkness.

“I don't need you to show me. You can just tell me--”

“I show you. It's easier. You want me to, non?” Christophe kicked a few stray rocks from the path into the cave. Once again, he checked his wristwatch, and mentally plotted out the time before the darkness fell over South Park. Kyle figured that he had an hour before the sun would begin to set; Christophe was a businessman before anything else, Mole, revolutionary, or muscle-for-hire. Kyle blanched at that last thought, his mind straining at the prospect of gaining an intimate relationship with the Christophe's muscles. 

“Lead the way," Kyle said, throwing up his hands in deferment to the Frenchman. He was startled when Christophe grabbed his arm, interlocking their fingers and dragged him into the shadows. To Kyle's surprise, the cave was not damp at all, but dry and lacking the icy overtones of the outside air. As Christophe navigated past the jagged rock walls and canvassed crates of who-knows-what, Kyle felt his whole body turning to cold jelly in spite of the warm and temperate cave atmosphere. Christophe had his hand in a vice, and more than once did Kyle stumble into his side, knocking his head against his shovel but more importantly, accidentally wedging their clasped fists in between each other's legs. Christophe's extra hand would gently press into Kyle's waist, bracing him upright against the rock when their clumsy feet got the better of them in the dark.

“You're, uh, very hands-on.”

“What can I say? We French, we surrender to desire. And everything else, really. But mostly desire.”

After a while of staggering against each other in the dark, it seemed that Christophe felt they were deep enough into the mountain, more than safe from from anyone's view than maybe a few wayward bats. He unstrapped his shovel, and turned on a dim electric lantern, illuminating the crevasse with pinkish light. Christophe released Kyle's hand, to his unexpected displeasure, and went about dragging the tarps off of wooden crates lined with hay. Kyle dared to peak into one, only to be shell-shocked by the red sticks of dynamite that lay stacked in the beds of straw.

“Mind the boxes," Christophe murmured, laying the canvas on the ground in lazy piles and dropping the lantern to the side. He unlatched his utility belt, fishing out the flask once more and wordlessly handing it to Kyle, who unlatched it and drank steadily with unpracticed ease.

“It's cold in here,” he drawled, fiddling with the hanging cap and sucking the sour alcohol off his lips. He looked at Christophe shyly, leaning against the wall of the cave and offered the drink back. Taking it from the red-faced boy, he emptied the last of the booze into this mouth and dropped the flask on the floor, sauntering closer to Kyle, reaching for his coat zipper.

“Oui.”

Pressed so close to the wall that he thought he was going to start climbing it, Kyle wore a stony face and kept his arms firmly at his sides even as Christophe tugged the zipper teeth apart and pushed the coat off his shoulders.

“I just said I was cold.” His hat was drooping over his eyes. Christophe poke it upwards with one finger, and stared into Kyle's unwavering and defiant glare.

“And I am going to touch you.” His calloused hand snaked behind Kyle's neck, and the cool touch made Kyle bend away from the wall and against Christophe's chest. 

“You don't feel cold Kyle. You feel very warm indeed.” 

They shuffled there for a minute, Christophe's hands winding into the gap of skin exposed by the fallen coat. Kyle kicked it away, and tentatively touched the tattered wool that hung over Christophe's stomach. He murmured in an encouragement, and Kyle finally found a firm grasp around Christophe's waist. He could feel the wool strain against his fingers as he wound an indistinct, nervous pattern into the cloth, parsing out the body beneath. 

“Tell me about the shower again. You like the water? It moves against your skin?” Christophe's mouth hovered mere inches away from Kyle, and the toxic scent of tobacco filled his senses and turned his stomach. He turned his head away and looked at the splintering boxes at his side, and the tendrils of hay that peaked over the box; he had an overwhelming urge to stuff every stray stalk out of his sight. 

“Yeah.” Kyle's curiosity got the better of him, and his kneading fingers moved to the small of Christophe's back. His chin was almost wedged over the curve of Christophe's shoulder, and he swallowed the sudden want to bury his head into the musky warmth of his armpit. “It's like a giant hug.” 

Christophe shuddered with a scarcely concealed snort. 

“Don't laugh!” In his strange attempt to headbutt Christophe, the two almost toppled over. Still chuckling, Christophe braced their bodies on the wall of the cave and buried his head into the nape of Kyle's neck. Boxed into his embrace, Kyle dug his hands into Christophe's back and twisted his nails into the grove of his spine. Christophe nearly lost his footing again, and when their thighs touched, Kyle squeezed his eyes shut and resisted the urge to grind into him, letting Christophe take the credit instead. The friction of belt buckles and zippers made caused him to feel a greater strain in his groin than he thought was possible; he unsuccessfully stifled a groan into Christophe's shoulder, shuddering as his outburst echoed into the depths of the caverns. 

“I'm sorry, you are just so... Tell me more. No more laughing.” And with that, Christophe kept his word, opening his mouth and gently sucking on the exposed skin of Kyle's neck. The warm suction of his lips spun practically spun Kyle's concentration into thin air. It only took an encouraging nip to force words out of Kyle's gaping mouth. 

“I...get on my knees.” He bent his neck further to the side to let Christophe suckle on his collarbone. At that admission, Christophe levered his full weight onto Kyle's body, and they sunk to the floor abruptly, but nonetheless, on their knees and still aggressively wiggling in each others arms. 

“How. Like this?”

“Yeah,” Kyle gasped, attempting to hook his hands over Christophe's shoulders and heave himself upright. His legs spasmed from the sudden impact of the cold ground, but he couldn't fully register the blunt pain with Christophe forcing his hands in between their thighs, coercing him to lean back against the wall of the cave. Falling astride the rock with a frustrated grunt, Kyle realized he had too much pride to act embarrassed by his eagerness, especially now that Christophe was trying to set the pace of his unconventional lesson. Their knees touched, but they were otherwise detached, only their steaming breath colliding in the space between them. The dim pink light illuminated the sweat on Christophe's brow; he wasn't smiling, too steeped his indifferent concentration, and his intense eyes flicked up and down Kyle's body. Kyle chewed on the inside of his cheek and summed up Christophe's stoic impatience to his shoddy storytelling.

“And I...hold it against my thigh at first.” Kyle reached above him and pressed his hat flat against his skull, yanking it down so it would be more secure and pillow his head against the rocks. He was reluctant to go on, but Christophe's eyes piqued with interest.

He hummed in acknowledgment, bending his torso closer to Kyle's, but carefully keeping his distance. “You touch your balls?” he asked, his hands curling into fists that rested passively on his thighs. The leather of his fingerless gloves creased with a plastic twang that made Kyle want to swat them away out of prudishness.

“Yes," he replied impishly, because any other answer to that question was unnecessarily obvious. "I play with my...beard too," he finished, not convinced that he was prepared to say pubes when 'they' were the designated seed of prank-revenge plots among boys, and were not to be the fodder in fantasies of another consenting youth getting their mouth on. Beard sounded idiotic, though-- had he regressed to fourth grade?

“Oh ho.” Christophe's relaxed his hands and eased them over the touching juncture of their kneecaps, skating over the wrinkles of Kyle's jeans with his palms. “Are you very curly then? And red? Down there?” His voice was tweaked with excitement; Kyle supposed it was only proper that the Frenchman was a fan of the ego-maniacal torture of dirty talk. Kyle's mouth was much more suited for debasing insults than sexual intrigue; he considered that Kenny's strength, despite the hood wringing his neck so that people have to lean in to hear his foul language. Unluckily so, Kyle was left stammering, distracted by the hands creeping up his torso.

“Yeah, but it's ugly," he snapped. This was not going to end nicely if Christophe kept at that tangent; Kyle was keeping his hat on at all costs.

“Not ugly. Only bitches trim.” Christophe flicked the ear of Kyle's hat, and tucked one finger underneath the lining. Kyle glared, preparing to hold a firm resolve-- and then startled when Christophe brushed his thumbs over his freckled cheekbones in an uneven swipe along his jawline. Kyle sucked his bottom lip into his mouth and winced at the feel of his gloves when Christophe cupped his chin. 

"These come off," Christophe hung his hands in front of Kyle, palms open and expectant. He expected the Mole was more than capable of undressing himself. Kyle curled his fists into the bunches of canvas beneath him, rearing forward to argue. But Christophe just unsnapped the backs of his gloves, and lazily eased his hands into Kyle's. He met Kyle inches from his lips, murmuring darkly, "I'm not that easy."

Kyle's jaw unhinged, but he fumbled to pull their hands into his lap.

“This is really weird,” Kyle huffed, rolling his eyes and pulling the glove off one hand with a quick snap. He did the other with two hands, because it got stuck the fingers, biting away a scowl and a quip about consenting foreplay and laziness. His sarcasm masked his swelling relief when Christophe's bare fingers hovered over Kyle's neck and collarbone, and stroked down the middle of his chest. As Christophe tenderly traced out the folds Kyle's t-shirt over his stomach, Kyle's lungs heaved and deflated at the gentle sensation. But he was still determined to look uncomfortable pressed against the wall, in spite of still clutching one of Christophe's gloves in a tight grip.

The corner of Christophe's lip twitched, “This is not weird, étrange. You will never feel this good again.”

Restless as he watched Christophe prepare to launch into another bout of investigative voyeurism, Kyle scooted forward, pulling himself flush against Christophe once more, and clasped both hands firmly on Christophe's ass. The nylon of his cargo's was thick with extra pockets, but Kyle hastily slid his hands further down over his back and thighs in a daring show of impatience, courageously rubbing against the telltale bulge of his balls. Cradling his head on Christophe's chest, Kyle breathed in the trampish aroma of pine, tobacco, and sweat. The Frenchman's stony posture briefly yielded to Kyle's fervent handling, and his agitated hands found Kyle's backside very quickly to squeeze with equal vigor.

“F-fuck. Don't you like it?” Kyle whispered, rocking his hips into Christophe's and relishing the pressure built from their subtle, unsynchronized gyrations against each other

Christophe growled, pushing his hands into the back pockets of Kyle's jeans and clutching. “I like it very much. It makes God angry. Now, turn around.”

Kyle gave him a nauseated glare at the unsolicited command, but kept massaging his hands into backs of Christophe's thighs. His passionate deadpan stare suggested that Kyle would be unwise to ignore him. With some reluctance, he flipped himself over, surprised by Christophe's insistent, grabby hands that guided him through the movement, and his subsequent instructions: “Put your hands against the rock.”

Kyle complied, though his hands were far more empty than he wished, and his arms shaking, but not from the cold. Christophe pressed himself flush against his back, rucking his t-shirt up to his neck and fanning his hands over the Kyle's pectorals. His fingertips brushed over frigid nipples and raked the stretching skin of his ribcage. Kyle's arms turned to noodles and his stance slipped, with his face colliding with the stone wall and his hat only doing so much for comfort.

Christophe's tantalizing ministrations spread over his chest and down his stomach, until they planted themselves at the curve of Kyle's pelvis to the ghostlike trail of fine red hair peaking just below his belly button. With the rims of his fingernails, Christophe combed through them, only to stop at his belt buckle and then bevel his hands into Kyle's skin. Combined with the enveloping stimulation on his back and ass from his grinding, Christophe teased out Kyle's strangled moans of pleasure and spittle-laced gasps for air.

“Oh, man. That feels awesome," Kyle choked out. His knees slid against the canvas on the ground, but he pushed back on the cave wall to meet Christophe's touch, eager for more dactyl attention.

Christophe huffed over Kyle's shoulder, yanking him backwards onto his lap to rest on his thighs. He wove his hands over his hipbones and pushed his fingers only just past Kyle's belt. “It feels full, non?” he whispered as he continued to rub wonderful pressure into his lower half.

“Yeah. I need--” Kyle still reached out towards the wall, using it as leverage to push back against Christophe's kneeling body.

“Unbuckle.”

“Yeah. That. Okay.”

With shaking hands, Kyle undid his belt and rolled his pants and briefs down to his knees, shamelessly freeing his dick and letting it hang in front of him. He heard Christophe lick his palm and then wrap his arms around Kyle's waist once more; Kyle wordlessly raised his hands to the wall. Christophe's mouth was stitched behind Kyle's neck with his needle like tongue, dragging his teeth along the bumps of his spine. Kyle's hands barely slapped to the rock in time to support himself when Christophe's wet palm wrapped around his thickening cock and begin to slide up and down the shaft with practiced ease. Kyle coughed up an embarrassingly loud cry of pleasure, and squeezed his eyes shut, a foreign hunger swelling through his muscles.

“Are you still cold?”

Kyle let out a bark of laughter. “A-ah- Of course not,” he panted, though he could feel a curious chilled draft between his legs below the hot mess that was saturating his thighs. It was the tiny breeze achieved from the plunging speed of Christophe's hand. The rest of Kyle's body churned as if it was filled with fire, boiling with the desire to be consumed by Christophe's dirty, calloused hands.

“Bien.” Christophe murmured, slowing his sultry treatment to a halt. “It's time for ze real lesson.”

“Huh?” Kyle blurt out, dismayed as Christophe pulled away again. But when he saw Christophe wrestling with his pockets and smear a glistening substance onto his fingers, Kyle's nerves shivered with debauched excitement. His hand migrated to his crotch and he began his impromptu ritual of combing through his matted red pubic hair before he grasped his cock and began to mimic the same even strokes that Christophe had so expertly delivered only moments ago. The creeping sensation of sweat on his balls and the unpredictable drafts of the cave made him crave Christophe's body, the overflowing pillar of warmth it had proved to be.

“What's that?” Kyle asked, jerking himself steadily and clenching his buttocks in premature excitement.

“Chapstick." After a beat, he added, "I don't have anything else.”

Kyle scoffed, but preened with silent glee when Christophe tucked himself behind him again, yanking free Kyle's legs from the noose of his jeans and underwear, nosing into Kyle's shins, and spreading them from each other.

“You're not nervous?”

“Uh, of course not. No.” Kyle half-chuckled, half-stammered, affronted by the forgiving lilt of Christophe's tone.“Not really."

At this point, Kyle balked, one arm hanging off his dick, and one on the wall in front of him, his ass splayed out for the older boy behind him. If he really understood the nature of of a learned experience of South Park, he should have come prepared for these measures, however unpredictable they may have been. But here he was, damned by the ineffable logic of South Park's heightened elevation, inexpertly seducing a volatile anarchist for the sake of his own pleasure in the mountains of his hometown. He was more exposed to Christophe than his mother had been when she was changing his diapers. He stiffened when a distinctively slimy hand cupped his bottom, and instantly regretted letting his mom get into his head-- germs, protection, my _bubbeh_ \-- he didn't think of her for long.

Sensing his fatigue, Christophe amended his sleight of hand to fearlessly grease up Kyle's crack with the emulsified lip balm, his hands hardly accommodating to the heat building there. Christophe tutted when Kyle pealed out with echoing yelps, shuddering as if he were made of paper instead of blood and bones.

"Excuse moi, cold hands. You'll have to warm them." Christophe coughed.

Kyle continued to ride the swaying pressure of Christophe's slick hand, as the other held him by his pelvis, ghosting over the ridges of his hips, ready to press him back onto a lubed-up digit.

"It won't be good unless you are comfortable."

“Oh, oh-- You've bullied me up to comfortable and then some. Just do it already.”

When he felt Christophe wind his finger in the sensitive grove of his ass, Kyle groaned and swung his head back, conking it against the other boy's skull. But Christophe was nothing but polite, and only managed to bite into his shoulder a little harder as he pushed in and out of his asshole parsing out a stacatto rhythm. He could feel the tight pucker of his opening clench and relax into the wiggling dance of that single finger, which turned into two in length of a minute.

“Oh my God.”

“Do not say his name.” With his free hand he raked his fingernails into his ass checks, which only made Kyle groan and thrust into his rigid fingers.

Palms sweaty, Kyle's grip faltered on the stone, causing him to inch down to the pillow of canvas, propping one hand between his head and the wall so that he could still push himself back onto the fingers with more force, even as he lay grimacing and biting into his lip. Christophe slid his free hand up the length of his back, gathering his t-shirt at his neck and curled his fingers inside of Kyle's ass until he squirmed against a stretch of muscle that incensed his pleasure to unintelligible levels of garbled panting.

Christophe ground needlessly into Kyle's thighs, his staggered breath blasting a hot circle onto the small of his back while his fingers worked him into with a frenzy. The sensation was unbelievable, and too hot, but too empty.

“Fuck, I need more.”

“Ah, well, I can't do that yet,” stuttered Christophe, his pace dawdling at the question, rolling his sheathed erection into the bridge of his thigh.

“Why not?" 

"I do not think--" 

"Have a little faith, Mole. I'm ready for this. Are you?"

"Faith! Now I know you have done this before..." gloated Christophe, affording Kyle an affectionate slap on the ass and a good-natured chuckle.

"No, 'cause-- cause-- I keep almost getting caught!" Kyle hissed back desperately, his frustration catching in his throat. "That's the most you'll get out of me."

"We'll see about that," Christophe returned with a canine growl.

He laughed outright at the sounds of Christophe fumbling with his clothes, the rustle of wool, the snap of leather, the ring of a silver buckle smacking against the ground. Christophe's pants and belt fell into a heap at his knees and Kyle drowned his nerves by yanking his dick back and forth, his body racing towards a familiar peak.

“How much stuff you got under that belt, Mole?" He dared to say into the crook of his arm while he waited. He chanced a smile when he heard a gasping laugh and the snap of an elastic waistband. Covetous hands heaved him back over the naked thighs.

The crescent of Christophe's dick slapped against Kyle's backside like an electric shock. Sliding into position, Christophe ground his cock into the valley of Kyle's ass cheeks, smearing the chap stick bath away in his own leaking juices. The head rubbed into the back of Kyle's balls as Christophe panted away like a chained dog behind him. Kyle rested a curious hand underneath himself to capture the head with his palm, Christophe slowed his eager humping so that Kyle could blindly paw at his uncircumcised dick. Everything was soft and moist, and only just out of Kyle's sight. They swooned as they rocked against each other, Kyle's fingers cupping a ribbed hole for Christophe to thrust into.

They shifted and evolved from that awkward undulation to fully thrusting against each other, with Christophe's hands fixed on the indents of Kyle's waist, rubbing himself along his slick crevasses, and Kyle bracing himself against the wall with one shaking hand and wildly jerking himself off with the other. Writhing in this insatiable need for pleasure, Kyle blurted out in between daunting gasps for air.

“Put it in!”

“Quoi?”

“Now! Do it, now!”

The moment that Christophe stretched Kyle over the barest inch of his dick, Kyle lost himself in the immediate burning heat that erupted around the ring of his ass. It hurt, stung awfully, but the arms around him caressed him beyond the pain into the drenching throb of slick, unfettered sex. Christophe thrust in halfway before Kyle burst, but pulled out and away as cum spurt out of Kyle's dick and onto his sweating thighs. As Kyle emptied himself onto the ground, Christophe began to thrust into his fist, grunting incessantly and rocking into the lurching curve of Kyle's bedraggled form. Kyle, swimming in the flushed fever of his release, twisted his hips back against Christophe's, inviting him to thrust in again, and grabbed Christophe's free hand to pull it against his breastbone. Christophe pressed his hard cock into Kyle, with short, quick thrusts that stretched him into a minute's haze of sweaty aching, without a cry of complaint. Christophe's fingers scratched at his right nipple, and then scooped down to grasp his stomach, pulling out and thrusting into the crevasse of Kyle's damp ass-cheeks and beating his hips into his in a slow, unwinding grind until Kyle felt the telltale shudder of Christope's body. A violent volley of slurred French erupted from his mouth and echoed treacherously into the mountain. Kyle promptly reached down to smear his hands in the white spunk that dripped down the back of his balls, fully warm and enraptured.

“Yeah, yeah...” Kyle chorused into the wall of the cave, pressing the new grime against the skin of his taint and rocking into his own hands. This was beyond locker room garble and schoolyard jests, beyond the unintelligible language of sex-riled boys. Kyle would have called it heaven, a warm slice of peace of mind, which was dragged down to reality by the slow unsticking of two bodies, and then meeting the cold air alone. There was an exchange of a sheet of dry canvas, and the passing of the water bottle as they patted themselves dry. They were only just as clean as God made made them.

Their walk back to the livelihood of the city was long and silent, the two of them still evaluating the tender pleasure that had transpired between them. The quiet was a blessing; Christophe's conversational pillow talk had been smothered by a chain of swiftly burnt cigarettes, and Kyle much preferred it that way. He drowned his thoughts in the evening breeze as it rattled through the woods, and the lingering warmth of hands on his body.

Comfort pooled in his stomach every time Christophe lit a cigarette as they walked; it was a subconscious ritual, stopping short on a cliff or bridge, tapping at his pack, digging a lighter from his pocket. That was far easier than looking at his pants, and thinking about how they had felt against the backs of his legs as Christophe moved. Or imagining him with his shirt off, bent over him, hot and consuming. It made him feel unnecessarily warm and sticky, though the wind was carrying frigid breezes down from the mountain. Kyle was even brave enough to share a smoke with him as they approached the narrow stretch of the motorway. He choked a little, but managed to feel sated by the spasms of his lungs and the accompanying crispy tingling in his throat. They passed a white stem back and forth for a few moments, the lonely gas station peeking out from where it was nestled at the cusp of the wooded hill.

"So, can you promise that it'll never feel that good again?"

"Tabacco? Or..." Christophe chuckled. He glanced from Kyle, back in the direction of his fortress, frowning and wringing his shovel in his hands. "You have no faith."

"I've got plenty to be faithful for, thank you very much." Kyle replied, nibbling at the raw skin on his lips. He had a sudden feeling as if his organs were twisting inside of him like a snail writing in salt. Staring down Christophe, he felt too confused to argue semantics, religion, any rhyme or reason that would force a definition on the second revolution-- or more aptly, revelation-- that brought them together. Christophe disposed of the cigarette butt, and turned to go.

“Hey," Kyle called out, striding towards him. Christophe looked exhausted, but his eyes were alert and leaping around him into the falling darkness. Kyle strode awkwardly up to him, and then took a few zig-zagged steps closer, leaning in to mumble, “Thank you.”

"Will you be back?" Christophe glanced over Kyle's shoulder down at the road. One hand clasped Kyle's upper arm gently, ready to yank him out of sight.

“I don't know. This doesn't mean anything at all, right?”

“You're wrong, _agneau_. It means just enough. And since you know where to find me, I'll ask you to be more careful in the future...Avoid walking past ze holly on your way down. I've laid some snares.”

“So, do I need to ask you to keep quiet about this?”

“Non. My lips are--”

Kyle cut him off with a soft open-mouthed kiss-- their first, to be exact-- sealing the end of their engagement for the evening. Christophe barely recovered, his neck stiffly oriented to the cleared area below them, his cheeks red and indignant. But he did kiss back a little, Kyle considered fondly, as he wandered down the side of Mole's hill, swerving away from the holly bushes, and stumbling onto the main road. It was no joke; he really couldn't walk straight without something stinging down there. 

Though he was reluctant to, as it would contradict the finality of his exit strategy, he looked back-- and didn't regret it.

From the sheath of the darkening tree's, Christophe plucked a fresh cigarette from his mouth, smoke twisting away from his lips, neither waving or smiling, but knowing. That was enough for Kyle, his assurance. To know that he had a place in the borderlands of his mountain town. Where secrets are just the truth, and the age of the rocks makes you feel young forever, and the only rules are just consensual. Where a little more than a craving quenched can bring about the fresh hunger for consumption.

Nobody was shoving shit in their mouth. No one was trying to funnel rodents into their colon. No one was even farting and then farting some more, or queefing. No one had to laugh, no one had to pay for their actions, and no one's feelings got hurt.

Kyle was deep in thought, kicking off the sludge he'd trampled into and looking ahead at the lampposts flickering on down the street. He ambled down the avenue towards the more intimate parts of town, to houses that he knew better than his own hands. He cupped his hands over his mouth, inhaling the lingering smell of cigarettes.

_Now, that's what a butt's for, bitches._

**Author's Note:**

> Posted Originally : "http://southparkkink.livejournal.com/529.html?thread=319761#t319761"


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